


Worthless

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25752898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Klinger turns something broken into a beautiful gift.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Worthless

Almost everyone had emerged from OR intact. 

A night when they didn’t lose anyone, or send anyone to Post Op fearing they would die  _ there  _ instead of on the table, was a good night. However, even these “good” nights took a terrible toll. To try to drown out the images from that night - and from all the nights before - BJ took Potter and Hunnicutt to the O Club for several drinks. He had another motive, one Charles realized as the Swamp came into view, much worse for wear. 

_ Ah, yes _ . Angry at one another - well, angry at being trapped together in this horror show - they had set out to destroy one another’s possessions. Pillows had been dissected, feathers drifting out to pile in the corners and incite sneezing. Coffee grounds had been ground into mattresses… along with stove ashes. 

There would be nowhere to lay, nowhere to sit… everything to clean. 

Except, as Charles approached the tent, it seemed that some of the cleaning was already underway. Still in the blood-speckled clothes he had worn to help out in OR, Klinger was there with a trash bag, beating back the mess.

“Preparing for your Stateside career?” Winchester asked archly. He assumed Potter had ordered Klinger over to help. 

He didn’t see the bright flash of pain enter the young man’s eyes because he was kneeling, now, beside a pile of rubbish. “Why are you separating out the vinyl?” he asked, holding up a sharp, black sliver. “It is all quite worthless.” 

“Like me?” the corpsman asked without lifting his dark head. 

Charles was so tired and so intent on examining the busted up remnants of his collection (trying to note what had to be replaced) that he scarcely registered this. “Hmm?”

“Nothing, Major.” Using a dustpan he’d produced from who knows where, Klinger gathered the sharp black shards. Then, on the way out, he turned on his heel to add, “They are worth  _ less _ , sir. But broken things can still be valuable to the people who love them.” Then he shrugged. “But maybe you don’t feel that way when you’ve got money enough to just buy new all the time.” Then he brushed off his knees and exited with the trash in tow, leaving Charles feeling flummoxed and a little like he’d just done something wrong, though he didn’t know what it was. 

***

A few days later, Charles had occasion to be in his CO’s office, where he thanked him for tapping Klinger as house boy. It had been a blessing to climb into a clean cot. 

Potter answered with a strange look. “I didn’t send him. That French maid costume is just for show. You boys are all big enough,” (Winchester couldn’t help but feel that this assessment was a comment on his height and weight) “to clean up after yourselves and Klinger works his nylons into tatters in OR as it is.”

_ Oh no.  _ He remembered the cruel things he’d said to the young man. “I thought, that is, I believed…”

Potter sensed his distress. “Let me see: he was the long-tailed cat and you were the rocking chair?”

“That  _ does  _ seem to be the nature of most of our encounters, yes.”

“Lucky for you, Klinger’s an easy lad - and lass - to make up to. Pick him some flowers and watch how he perks right up.”

***

It was idiotic, stooping to pick flowers for another man (his family name was decidedly taking a blow) but Klinger had been on his knees to help  _ him _ . He hadn’t even thought about how tired the Corporal had to have been, how much he probably wanted to go scrub the blood off rather than replacing his sheets. He’d just teased him, as always, for being low class. He thought of those broken records; when it came to Klinger he  _ was  _ one - always putting him down.  _ But I can do better.  _

The door to Klinger’s tent was propped so he just walked in. 

His eyes settled on a piece of polished wood - Japanese maple by the looks of it. Beside it, the shattered vinyl was stacked. On it, a series of musical notes had been crafted from the broken pieces. Winchester stood over it. “What is this?”

Klinger came to stand closer to him; he looked sheepish. “You don’t recognize it? I probably got it wrong then. It’s not glued down yet though so I can fix it.”

“Klinger… this is…” It was difficult to breathe. To think. To  _ believe _ . 

“That song you hum all the time.”

“Yes. You  _ read music _ ?”

“Yeah. My uncle had an import shop,” Klinger explained. “One of his customers taught me. I can’t play much but I can write what I hear down.”

_ Holy Toledo indeed _ . “And you undertook this creative endeavor because?”

“Seemed like you needed it, sir. You’re unhappy a lot. But you don’t have to take it. It’s not fancy or anything…” 

“This is for  _ me _ ?”

“They’re your records, sir.” 

_ And this is beyond belief.  _

“They’re broken,” he murmured stupidly. 

_ And still beautiful _ . 

“If you don’t like it, Major, it’s okay. I wasn’t really ready to show you yet.” 

Charles couldn’t turn away. “Hush. I will be pleased not only to display it here but in my office when I return home.” He felt Klinger brighten beside him. He had drawn closer to look at the piece with him and Charles found himself wanting to take his hand.  _ I have been so cruel to you _ .  _ I have been so cruel and yet you conspire to bring me such peace.  _ Had he been braver or more demonstrative, he would have embraced the slighter man. 

“Klinger, do you know what song it is?” His fingers traced the notes, the rests - classical music transcribed by a Lebanese Corporal in a dress and crafted from vinyl smashed up by his childish tentmates.  _ What manner of eyes must you have, Klinger, to look at that mess and see  _ **_this_ ** _? How is that possible? _

“Nope.”

“It is known as ‘The Sister’s Anthem.’ And I hum it because I used to hum it to my sister, Honoria.”

“You miss her alot.”

“I do.” His tears fell and sparkled on the vinyl like stars.

Klinger brushed them away. “It’s supposed to make you happy, Major!” 

“I am, Max.” 

In that moment, Klinger saw the flowers Charles was carrying. “On your way to a date? Probably come to borrow a dress, huh?”

“No. These are for you. I meant to lead with that but I was, ah, distracted.”

“For me? How come?” He took them, fingers trailing over the colorful petals. 

“As a thank you for your help with setting the Swamp to rights.” 

“Figured you sirs needed your sleep is all.”

“So do you.”

Klinger shrugged. “I’m not saving anybody.” 

“That is not presently and has never been true, Max.” He rested his fingers on the notes. Charles heard it then: the words he’d missed when they were last together.  _ Worthless. Like me.  _ “You said something when you left the other day.” 

“Yeah?”

“When you think of me, Max, do you think me whole or broken?”

It was a small voice that ventured, “The second one, Major.”

“As do I. But if I understood what you were saying, you suggested that my shattered state need not be either unlovely nor an impediment to being valued.” 

“I’m sure lots of people think you’re great to look at and be around.”

“No, Max, they do not. Nor are ‘lots of people’ at work on something beautiful to provide me with comfort. Why are you doing this?” 

Klinger looked sad. “I told you.” 

“Not all of it.”

“The rest won’t matter, sir.” 

Charles did not believe this. He had no intention of allowing Klinger to do so either. “You seem to possess a singular gift for mending: your skirts, my records, the feelings of the men in post op.”

“Yes, sir?” 

“Am I wrong to want to put myself in your hands?”

“No. I’m just scared that if you do, I’ll have to fix  _ me  _ when you drop me. Broken vinyl is easy next to a broken heart.” 

Charles grazed his cheek with his thumb, then kissed his fingers, cut up with the work of arranging broken vinyl. “I am a thoracic surgeon, Max. Your heart is safe with me. You would not give up on broken recordings. Would you leave  _ me _ broken?” 

Having seen the care Klinger had taken with fragments, Charles knew the answer. And as they touched, Charles wondered if he was becoming something beautiful, something new. 

End ! 


End file.
